


Atsansena

by AustralianRanger012



Series: Mercy-Verse [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-War of Wrath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 11:26:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14893748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AustralianRanger012/pseuds/AustralianRanger012
Summary: Oromë runs into someone he wasn't expecting to see on Middle Earth. Takes place just after the War of Wrath. One-shot. Prequel to Óravassë. Mercy-verse.





	Atsansena

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the recognisable characters in this story, and make no money from them. This story is purely a work of fanfiction, and written for fun. All rights belong to the Tolkien Estate.

**A/N**

**Atsan** **sena** – Quenya for 'to catch him' (roughly). In English, this story would be entitled Captured.

Thanks to CoffeeRanger for the beta and editing. Her little details make events that much more heartbreaking.

Chronologically, this takes place not long after Sauron fled from Eönwë.

Enjoy!

* * *

Oromë was tired.

It was a bone-deep tiredness that reached into the very depths of his fana. He had never experienced fatigue like it before. It bordered on exhaustion – closer to it than he cared to admit. It made him want to lay down and sleep for a time out of mind, even though he should not require much rest. The Valar did not experience exhaustion like the Children, or even the Maiar, did. Nor did they fatigue.

At least, they never had before.

Before it all. Before dissonance had entered the Song. Before Melkor had become Morgoth, turning his back on who he was and Who had made him. Before evil had spread its taint across Middle Earth. Now, Oromë was sure he wasn't the only one who was tired.

Tired of the fighting.

Tired of the pain.

Tired of having to try and patch up what was broken. Not because they did not wish to mend their Father's world as best they could, but because they did not want to see any more of the Firstborn, or the Secondborn, or even the Dwarrow, in pain.

The Hunter suddenly stopped, finely-honed senses alerting him to the presence of _someone_ else nearby. While the energy signature was difficult to read, Oromë instantly knew he was not dealing with an elf or a human, or even an animal.

No. The energy he was getting was very different to theirs.

There was an undeniable undercurrent of darkness to this signal that put the Hunter on alert. The taint _was_ weak – as if it were the signal of an evil one not long for this world. But, Oromë had been tricked before, and was determined not to make that mistake again.

Weariness forgotten, the Vala headed silently in the direction the signal came from. There was a grove of trees off to one side, hugging the base of a cliff; the energy was coming from them. As he got closer, the Vala's sharp ears picked up faint splashes, and the trickling of water. Slipping between the trees with a silence and grace few other Valar possessed, the Hunter soon found the water he'd heard, in the form of a small spring.

However, that was not all he found. It was no orc, or goblin, nor even one of the accursed Balrogs as he suspected. Instead, a lone figure, clad in black, knelt on the muddy ground next to the spring.

Its shoulders were slumped as it stared into the water. The moonlight reflected off tangled hair, which shone with an unearthly copper light. Its clothing (if one could call what it wore clothing. To Oromë's eyes, it looked like it was made of the same material as the sacks the Elder used for storing potatoes), was tattered and grungy.

The creature had its back turned towards him, not yet aware it was no longer alone. From this angle, Oromë could not tell who it was. Though, now he was closer, he recognised the thing's energy signature.

For _thing_ it had become.

The figure before him was akin to him. Or had been, once upon a time. Morgoth's darkness and hatred in him was impossible to ignore now. Oromë's fëa dimmed in sorrow at the knowledge he was facing yet another example of Morgoth's cruelty. It was bad enough to see what the Twisted One had done to the peoples of Middle Earth. But, it was somehow worse seeing the tortures he had subjected many of the Maiar to – beings who had been placed under their protection.

Beings their _Atar_ had entrusted to them to protect.

The creature suddenly realised he was no longer alone, and froze. It slowly stood up, before turning around to face the threat. He raised his hands defensively; Oromë absently noted he was not visibly armed, not even with a knife. Wide, haunted golden eyes stared out at Oromë from a pinched, almost-emaciated face. Those golden eyes widened when their owner registered who was standing before him, and he began backing away from the Vala.

His hands dropped from the defensive position he had placed them in. Now, they appeared to be blocking – shielding his torso and head– more than anything.

Even with the pitiful state the Maia was in, Oromë recognised him.

To say he was shocked was an understatement.

"Sauron?"

Sheer panic overtook the features of Morgoth's chief lieutenant (or was it ex-lieutenant?), and the corrupted Maia turned to flee. However, the Hunter wasn't letting one of Morgoth's servants slip through his hands that easily.

The pity Oromë had felt for the Being fled even quicker than the fallen Maia tried to. This Maia had not been taken against his will and twisted into something he had no wish to become. No. This one had betrayed them willingly; had been directly responsible for many of the evils that had occurred. This one had laughed as he tortured innocents – revelling in their pain in the same way his Master had.

Oromë had heard the stories.

It was surprisingly easy to overtake and overpower the Maia. As soon as Oromë's hand landed on his arm, all the fight seemed to leave him. The creature crumpled to the ground, head hanging, tremors wracking his fana.

Summoning a pair of iron cuffs out of thin air, the Vala bound Sauron's hands behind his back. As soon as the cuffs locked around his wrists, sealed with the Vala's power so they were completely smooth on the outside, the little bit of energy the Maia seemed to have left seeped out of him. Exhaustion rolled off him in waves, as he knelt there with his head hanging – defeated.

The tremors wracking his slim body increased, though he kept his shoulders tense. Oromë suspected it was a combination of fear, shock and exhaustion causing them. Oromë couldn't help but feel satisfaction at that. Sauron _should_ fear him; should fear all the Valar. It was finally time, nay, it was _past_ time, for him to answer for his crimes.

The Maia did not say anything, nor even look up when, Oromë got over his shock enough to speak.

"Sauron. You will have realised by now, that it is all over. You and your chosen lord have lost. He is already on his way back to Valinor, where he will doubtlessly be sentenced to the Void. You are now under arrest by my authority, and will also be taken West. In Valinor, you will face all the Valar in the Máhanaxar for the evil crimes you have committed. There, you will have a chance to plead your case, and there, you shall receive your sentence by the authority of Lord Manwë Súlimo, King of all Arda, and Eru's vice-gerent in Eä. Do you understand this?"

The Maia gave a short jerk of his head, but still did not look up, nor respond verbally. Which suited Oromë. He vaguely remembered the silver-tongue (and extreme intelligence) this one possessed, and was not in the mood to match wits.

He just wanted to finish cleaning up here, so he could go home.

Though, now he had the added responsibility of keeping Sauron in line. Until they were back in Valinor (where he could be delivered over to the authority and judgement of all the Valar), it was his job to watch him. His job to protect those traveling back with him from this Maia.

And, with this one's talent for manipulation and smooth talk, Oromë didn't dare let Sauron out of his sight until then. Lest he seduce someone of lesser will into letting him go.

Or worse.

Oromë gave an internal groan at that thought.

As if he didn't have enough to do.

* * *

**A/N**

I hope you enjoyed this little one-shot, and that it will help tide you over while I continue tearing out my hair in frustration over Óravassë's Sequel. Which is now twenty-six chapters long and counting. The latest: The Plot Bunnies have decided half the Maiar population of Valinor are in need of therapy, and are trying to send them all to Námo…


End file.
